


And The World Shifted

by LovelessRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya and Nymeria bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploring other sides of Arya, F/M, Grief, More tags to follow, Protective Jon Snow, Sansa being Sansa, jonrya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelessRose/pseuds/LovelessRose
Summary: Diverges after Arya chooses the path back home in 7x4. Arya returns to Winterfell, and everything she has repressed comes to the surface.





	1. Chapter 1

Entering the gates of Winterfell, Arya couldn’t help but shiver as she looked around. She didn’t shiver from the cold. The winds of the North could never illicit that reaction out of her. No, it was from seeing her home for the first time since she was but a girl.

The years had not been kind to her home. Between Theon Greyjoy and the Boltons, there was much to be done to wipe those stains from the beloved buildings that protected her in her youth.

She felt the rustle of fur next to her, and Nymeria’s nose bump against her hand gently, urging her from her thoughts. It was still a wonder to Arya that they were together again. She had thought the she wolf turned her back on her forever in the forest clearing. But when Arya had awoken and continued her journey home, Nymeria had fallen into step a few miles after, never looking back.

Arya still hadn’t fully faced the wolf, so much left unspoken since they last saw one another. It was merely a journey for now. They would have a proper reunion once they returned home. 

It would be the second most important one she would have.

Arya looked around at the people scurrying about, all faces that were unfamiliar to her. For the first time since leaving the House of Black and White, she allowed herself to grieve, if only briefly. It was a silent pain, walking the grounds her parents walked, passing structures Bran loved to climb, while looking at the training grounds where her big brothers would spar, and remembering the giggles from Sansa and Jeyne as they observed. As quickly as the thought had come, it was replaced, an indifferent mask placed back on her face. She turned a corner, heading towards the hall. 

It was easy for her to navigate the grounds without being noticed. If she were grateful for one thing in her training, it was that. Walking undetected- hiding in plain sight- meant she could take her time. It meant she could assess a situation, using as much time as she needed. She recited what she knew in her head.

 _Jon took back Winterfell_  
_Jon is King of the North_  
_Sansa is with him_

She recited it again. And again. And again.

The more she said it, the more her heartbeat seemed to quicken. She made her way to a deserted nook between two buildings and leaned heavily against one of the walls.

Everything had been so clear when she began her journey. Jon was home. He was alive and safe. He was home again, and she could join him. They could be a family, and go back to some semblance of happiness. Nymeria could have her family back, too. She had heard whispers of a white direwolf with red eyes, and knew Ghost would be anywhere that Jon was. 

Her mantra of Jon and Sansa, of Winterfell, of a new start sounded just like the mantra she had spoken every night for the past few years. The mantra that led her to the life she led.

Her list.

It was that thought that almost had her heaving in the heavy snow at her feet. How could she face him, and jump in his arms and be loved and protected by him as if she hadn’t killed?

Becoming No One was cathartic. It was far easier to forget than it was to remember. Forgetting was simple; immersing one’s self in giving up worldly possessions and past memories was far preferable to the alternative, despite everything the waif put her through. 

Past memories came back in haunting stages after she left, sometimes sneaking up on her and shifting her entire world on its axis. 

Traveling away from Braavos, she felt that first shift when asked if she had a mother and father and had to bite the back of her hand to stop the well of tears as she answered no.

She felt another shift in the kitchen as she put the Frey pies over the fire and walked out to see the exact spot where Grey Wind’s cage was, and all but saw the men parade her brother’s corpse through the night.

This was another shift, and she couldn’t tell if it was a shift or if her world would shatter. If Jon knew the things she was capable of…

Nymeria was alert as Arya swayed in place for several more seconds, gently nudging her and whimpering with every shaking breath Arya took. Eventually, she fell to her knees and embraced Nymeria, burying her face deep in the wolf’s neck. It was the first hug she had since Ned Stark’s death.

Nymeria nipped Arya gently and put her paws on Arya’s knees. It took a few moments for her to get her bearings, and when she did, she wiped her tears with dirt smudged hands and stood again. She knew with every fiber of her being that if she allowed herself to give in to the years since leaving Winterfell, she wouldn’t be able to get back up again.

The only thought driving her was the one that kept solace with her every moment since she was brought to King’s Landing: She was going to see Jon again.

She was going to finally be with the person she had been trying to get to since she left home. The person-if given the choice-she would have gone to the Wall with, even if that meant spending the rest of her days there.

Jon was her family, her breath of fresh air. He loved her unconditionally, believed in her when no one else had, and gifted her with the sword that saved her life more than he would ever know. Even when he wasn’t there, he saved her life.

Arya and Nymeria reached the hall to see it packed with people. Moving close to the wall, she maneuvered quietly into the room and made her way to a corner. Nymeria followed suit, and Arya raised an eyebrow in surprise at just how subtle the large wolf’s movements were. Whether it was the topic of conversation or the peoples’ comfort with direwolves, Arya didn’t question. Instead, she took the opportunity to take in the situation. Bannermen and knights lined the back wall where she stood, and at the center tables sat what looked like lords from the neighboring lands. She recognized the sigils of House Mormont, and of course the Vale, along with a few others. Their demeanors were stern, yet none threatening.

 _Good_ , Arya thought as she reached across her body to grip the hilt of Needle. Whatever discussion was happening, it didn’t look like it would turn hostile. Arya’s hand remained at her belt as her eyes roamed the rest of the room. When her gaze reached the head table at the front of the hall, she couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped.

Jon and Sansa were sitting at the table, side by side, looking out into the crowd. Her eyes lingered on Jon, and she felt a heavy emotion as she looked at him. His hair was longer, so long that he had to tie it up. His face held bruises and scars that seemed out of place compared to what she remembered, but his eyes were what she really focused on. His eyes said more to her in that moment than any words could have. They spoke of pain, death, and a sense of duty and honor he couldn’t escape from.

Arya knew those things all too well. She turned her face away, not bearing to be able to look at him any longer. She turned her focus to Sansa next, who had just finished voicing a thought to the crowd surrounding her.

Sansa had not seemed to change much from the girl she once was. Her hair was also longer, and her posture was very much that of a lady. Her voice was strong and confident, the same as Arya remembered from the last time they spoke. Arya noticed the difference now, though. It was clear that- like Jon- she also had demons. Despite seeing that, Arya was not shocked to find that she did not hold the same compassion for her that she had for Jon moments before. 

The lords in the room seemed placated by whatever her sister said, each of them nodding their heads in disgruntled agreement. Arya had no use for the conversation. Her intent was to wait them out. The sooner they left, the sooner she could start rooting herself to her home again.

It took only a few minutes more before the meeting ended. Jon and Sansa remained seated as the lords and their men filed out of the large hall. Ayra kept her place in the corner, hardly noticeable through the crowd. Those who had spotted her during the meeting assumed she was a cup-bearer or a maid, by the looks they had given her as they gestured to flasks of wine when their cups ran dry. Those men had merely given her a disapproving look as they left. 

When the hall door finally closed behind the last person, Jon breathed a deep sigh. Sansa stood abruptly, her dress swaying as she walked to stand on the opposite side of the table in front of Jon.

“You really shouldn’t have said that to them.” She chastised.

“I didn’t have a choice, Sansa. They needed to know the truth and what I was planning to do. The white walkers are coming.” He responded, exasperated that he had to repeat his warning yet again.

“Yes, but they need to be reassured that their loyalty is being rewarded, at least in some part by a King willing to take in their concerns when offered.” Sansa continued.

Arya watched their exchange from her place, and a familiar twinge of anger rose in her chest at the way Sansa was speaking to him. Maybe it was another shift of the past, one where she remembered cold indifference or barely concealed hostility from Sansa to Jon. Or maybe it was the look she saw in Jon’s eyes earlier. The look that showed that, despite his faults, he was still trying his best to do what was right.

She felt the anger rise and realized it was the former; it looked like Sansa was still the same.

Arya moved then, but stopped in her tracks when her boot collided with a nearby chair. Their eyes were on her immediately, and the silence that followed was almost deafening.


	2. Chapter 2

No one spoke for the longest moment, each too stunned to make a move. Sansa held her hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling. Jon stayed seated, his eyes wide and mouth agape. He felt like he was frozen in place, unable to move even if he wanted to.

_Arya _, his mind screamed, the sound ripping through him with enough force that if it tried hard enough, it could tear its way into his vocal cords and out his mouth.__

__It couldn’t be her. No... he wouldn’t bring himself to believe it._ _

__How long had he waited for this moment? How many nights had he stayed awake thinking of her? How many times had he cried himself to sleep under the ice sky of the Night’s Watch, knowing there was a chance he would never get to see her again? Whether or not she was dead or alive?_ _

__Too many, was the answer. Too many nights of fierce promises to look for her. Too many thoughts of ways he could- ways he would – break his vows without bringing dishonor to his Lord father. Too many memories of being forcefully held by his brothers as he tried leaving through the gate. Even more memories of fighting them off, though they held fast at Jon’s own request._ _

__He’d never given up, but he’d stopped himself from believing._ _

__He stood then, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor and the creak of the table from where his hands rested sounding too loud. He walked around the table and moved forward, gently brushing Sansa’s hand from his shoulder to stop him. He understood her concern. It was hard not to._ _

__They had been through so much in such a short amount of time. He and Sansa had been reunited, they watched their brother die, and fought a battle to take back their home. Between getting their bearings, and trying to hold the North together, he couldn’t deny Sansa’s silent urge to be cautious._ _

__As he got closer to the girl, he knew he could not use caution. He had to know, had to see for himself, if it was truly her._ _

__“Arya.” Her name left his lips in a whisper. His gaze was trained on her face, looking for any sign of recognition. He looked for the toothy smile she would give him when he hugged her tightly, or the mischievous glint in her eyes when she used to play pranks on Sansa. Her rosy cheeks from being out in the sun too long when she should have been doing her needlework. The wildness of the hair he used to love to muss._ _

__If he saw even a hint of those things, he felt he would fall apart._ _

__Arya gasped when she heard her name. It was the sound- the voice she tried with all her might to remember. Hearing it brought tears to her eyes, and she could feel herself start to smile. She almost stopped when she realized just how long it had been since she actually had._ _

__Gendry came close, but that was different. Gendry made her laugh, and they helped each other through their travels. And though he may have made her laugh, Jon was the only one to make her smile._ _

__She barely heard the sound of thudding footsteps before she felt herself lifted off the ground and engulfed in a crushing embrace._ _

__“Arya!” Jon yelled, his arms tightening around her. He knew it was her. That smile after he whispered her name told him all he needed to know._ _

__Arya, for all the time she waited for this moment, had no idea what to do. Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck of their own accord, and her head buried itself in the crook of his neck. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own, past memories of being loved guiding her movements. The tears in her eyes escaped then, traveling down her cheek and ending in the fabric of Jon’s tunic._ _

__Her body shook as Jon’s arms tightened around her, the reverberations mimicked in his own movements._ _

__Jon’s mind was an abyss of emotion as he held Arya. Words raced through his head a mile a minute, every thought and every sentence laced with grief and guilt and love and redemption. Having her in his arms felt like hot and cold knives were piercing into him, his heart thrumming with life with every breath he felt her take._ _

__He was nothing and he was everything, all at the same time._ _

__“Arya…Arya…” He murmured, running a hand through her short hair and resting it at her neck._ _

__Arya answered back fervently, reciting his name against his neck as she held him. Nothing else mattered to her in that moment. She briefly felt the sensation of fur against her leg, and somewhere in the haze of her mind, she remembered Nymeria’s presence. If she turned around, she was likely to see the wolf perched next to her, beholding the scene._ _

__She wasn’t sure how long they had embraced, or how long they would remain that way. If left up to her, she would never let go of him again. Just as the emotional onslaught in her mind began to clear, the sound of footsteps approaching behind Jon assaulted her ears._ _

__Within seconds, Arya detached herself from Jon’s embrace and turned- back to back with him- to face the oncoming threat. She had unsheathed Needle during the turn, and the blade was mere inches from her target before she heard the sharp intake of breath come from the lips of her sister._ _

__Sansa’s greeting caught in her throat, her feet planted firmly on the ground in shock. Fear was etched in her features as she stared into the blade of the sword._ _

__She had witnessed the reunion of her siblings from a distance, smiling sadly as she watched them. It was a bittersweet moment, knowing all of her living siblings were home again, while silently praying to the old gods that her mother, father and brothers were watching from beyond. She gave Arya and Jon a moment to themselves, knowing from years of spectating how close her little sister and half brother were._ _

__The last thing she expected was to have a weapon raised to her when moving to join them._ _

__Arya’s eyes were wide and feral before recognition allowed her to lower Needle abruptly and sheath it once more. Her face softened while she breathed out an apology to Sansa._ _

__Arya sensed Nymeria before she saw her, her strong presence next to her bringing comfort. Glancing over, she saw Nymeria begin to relax, her teeth no longer bared, her stance no longer threatening. The direwolf looked to Arya once more before sitting back on her hunches._ _

__Arya moved forward, holding her hands out as a sign of peace to the woman in front of her. Jon was still behind her, but she had no desire to face him. The panic she felt earlier rose in her chest again, pausing her movements briefly._ _

__She could only imagine what Jon looked like right then. Did he look at her in fear, the way Sansa had? In silent support like Nymeria? Did he see her as a monster who pulled a sword on her own sister without thought? She forced the doubts from her mind as she focused on Sansa. She would have her time to speak with Jon, and to hear his thoughts. She would deal with it then._ _

__“I’m so sorry, Sansa.” She began, moving closer still to take Sansa’s hands in hers. “I was startled. It has been a long journey.”_ _

__Sansa gazed at her sister, nodding slowly at her answer. Sansa also experienced long journeys, and if they were anything like her own, she could only imagine the horrors her sister must have endured to think unsheathing a weapon was her only option._ _

__Sansa glanced at Jon from behind the smaller girl, gauging his thoughts. She saw his eyes trained on Arya, and by the hard look on his face, she knew his thoughts were the same as hers. There was a clear difference between them, however, and that difference was as clear a line as their relationships with Arya were._ _

__Sansa was sympathetic. Jon was murderous._ _

__Jon stared at Arya as she spoke to Sansa, his hands balled into fists as he willed his anger down. Adrenaline still pumped through him from Arya’s defensive movement, but this time he had nothing but his own thoughts and theories to concentrate on._ _

_What happened to her? Who has hurt her? _He thought, those questions consuming him as he studied her back. He took in every physical detail he could as she stood in front of him. He noticed her stance was rigid, even when relaxed enough to approach Sansa. And even though he heard her apology, her tone held no remorse for her earlier action.__

____It took all of his willpower not to let a growl escape from his throat. Arya was always brave and strong willed, and always willing to help and protect her family. She never raised a hand or a sword to anyone unless she felt threatened. The ease in which she drew her weapon meant it was a well practiced skill. One that wouldn’t have to be practiced if it hadn’t had to be used. And certainly not a skill executed with such ease without years of utility. The thought of someone making her feel unsafe made his blood pump faster through his veins._ _ _ _

____Sansa looked at him again, and he forced the thoughts aside. He would speak with Arya. And he vowed to the old gods and the new that he would ensure she never felt unsafe again._ _ _ _

____Sansa turned her attention back to Arya and smiled. “It’s alright, Arya. We are just glad that you’re home.” She sincerely meant that. She was truly happy to see her sister. It meant that Winterfell was a little more like home. It also further solidified their place in the North, which was important with all of the political negotiations that were happening._ _ _ _

____Arya smiled back, her hand reaching down to seek out Nymeria. The direwolf moved closer and nuzzled against her._ _ _ _

____Sansa looked at the scene, her heart fluttering as she thought of Lady. Before her thoughts could stray farther, she took Arya’s free hand in hers and faced Jon._ _ _ _

____“Our dear sister must be tired after her journey.” She patted Arya’s hand before taking Jon’s and joining theirs together. “I’ll go to the kitchens and have them prepare an early meal. Jon, I’m sure you will escort her to her room?”_ _ _ _

____“Aye.” He responded, moving Arya’s hand to the crook of his arm. Arya allowed him to lead her out of the hall._ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

Jon and Arya were silent as they walked the grounds of Winterfell. While Jon looked straight ahead, Arya followed half a step behind, taking in the sights. The snow fell heavily around them, thick flakes sticking to them as their feet trudged through the fresh white powder. Arya couldn’t help the elation she felt upon seeing snow through the eyes of home. After being away for so long, she didn’t think she would ever get tired of looking at Winterfell. And now that she had Jon by her side, she could inspect it with a clear mind. 

There was much to be done, it seemed. Some of the structures needed to be rebuilt, fixtures and furniture replaced. She didn’t have to be told that most of what was once present in her childhood had been destroyed and looted. Hot Pie’s brief description of a battle had all but hinted at most of the destruction before her. There was really only one place she prayed was still intact.

“The crypt?” She asked, hesitantly.

“Untouched.” Jon replied, his gaze still forward. 

She nodded, the relief she felt relaxing her limbs. Out of everything, she would have been devastated if anything happened to it. “I’d like to go there soon.”

She couldn’t see his face, but the hard flex of his arm hinted his answer. “Whenever you’d like.

After a few more moments, they reached her childhood chambers and stopped outside. Arya detached herself from Jon and placed her hand on the handle of the door. Biting her lip, she pushed it open, allowing the light from outside to filter in. 

The room was smaller than she remembered, even without half of the trinkets that once inhabited the space. The bed in the corner was stripped of covers, and the desk that used to hold haphazardly thrown needlework and stolen arrows was no longer there, leaving too much room in its wake.

From the looks of it, the room had been tidied just enough to remain presentable, but did not look to be used for a long while, if the layers of dust on the remaining furniture was any indication. 

She didn’t know exactly what happened to Winterfell since her departure, but hushed conversations and drunken yells told a story of usurpers and violation. Looking at the remains of the room, it didn’t take much to see that it hadn’t been spared.

She steeled her expression and turned away from the desolate space of her childhood to look at Jon, who still stood a few paces away. Unaware of her thoughts, his eyes roamed the room, as if it was the first time he had seen it as well. A frown formed on his lips, and he turned his head away tersely. 

He turned back around just enough to hold his arm out to her again. “I’ll show you to your chambers, now.” His tone was clipped, but it was not directed at her.

She took his arm again and turned her back to the still open door. Too much happened, the room too far gone for her to feel comfortable being there. She knew this, just as Jon had. He brought her there strictly out of the obligation to allow her to choose. 

Jon let out a breath as he felt her take his arm, allowing him to guide her away. Since he and Sansa had taken back Winterfell, he could never bring himself to go near Arya’s room. Even when Sansa would request his opinion on what the chambers would be used for, he would abruptly end any conversation surrounding it, the persistent tightening in his chest too much to bear.

Seeing the room for the first time since he’d been there last was like a punch to his stomach. Anything that marked that room as hers was no longer there, and any remains of polished wood and satin linens had been destroyed long before. He had expected as much, his mind imagining the horrors that may have occurred in that space.

He was prepared, if Arya entered the room with the intention to stay. He was prepared to offer any argument he could to convince her to go elsewhere.

But, she understood. He saw it in the way her muscles tensed when she opened the door. Saw it in the way her eyes lingered on memories passed, and the knowledge that seeped in when she turned to face him again that the room she once knew- the happy place it once was- was long gone.

Neither looked back as they walked away, with Jon leading her through another hallway in the castle. Turning down a corridor, they made their way through to the other rooms.

As Arya walked, she felt that shift again, her head swimming as her parent’s bed chamber door loomed in the distance. She tightened her hold on Jon’s arm involuntarily, loosening it again as quickly as she clutched it.

If he noticed, he didn’t let on. Instead, he stopped in front of another door.

Arya looked at him in question. Jon’s expression was contemplative and hesitant as he stared hard at the door in front of him. Arya could feel her lips turn down at the sight. She’d seen that look too many times in her youth, usually in response to whispered taunts or her mother’s sometimes vengeful maligning.

Plastered on his face was fear of rejection. Fear of her rejection. She had to hold in a humorless laugh. No matter how many years separated them, her rejection in any form was something he never had to worry about. That he was nervous at all was something that she would be quick to address later.

Instead, she remained silent as she waited for him to say something.

“Sansa’s chambers are down the hall.” He commented, clearing his throat of the hoarseness from his words. He inclined his head to the door Arya’s focus had been on earlier. 

“She took mother and father’s chambers.” She stated, not at all surprised. There was no doubt her sister felt she held that birthright. She was the eldest true-born Stark now, prepped from infancy in all the ways of the title of Lady Stark. Arya couldn’t help the hint of bitterness she felt.

Jon nodded, glancing down at her. There was no sign of judgement on his face as he replied. “She did." He smiled sadly, reassuringly. "I wouldn’t have felt comfortable in that room. Besides, I don’t need much space. I am in Robb’s chambers.”

She squeezed his arm again, this time in comfort. It had been years, but the time did nothing to dull the pain of their brother’s death. 

Jon brought his other hand to hers, resting it there, and trying his best to draw comfort from her presence. He nodded toward the door they stood in front of. “I…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I…when I found you..or when you returned, I thought these would be best suited for you.”

He cleared his throat again, his words caught. “If you don’t want this one, you can choose another and I’ll have it cleaned—”

“I want this one.” She replied steadfastly, still staring at the door. 

Robb’s room always fascinated her as a child, because his was the only one that had direct access to the one next to it. When Rickon was but a babe, it was a place used for their studies. When it was too cold to play outside, they would play in there, hiding behind curtains and using broken bows as swords. Even Sansa joined in occasionally, proclaiming herself lady of the tournament, laughing as Robb and Jon would fight for her honor. Some of the few times where there weren’t septas and maesters or bastards of the North. 

The room in front of her was that room. There was nowhere else she would have chosen.

“This is where I want to be.” She turned to face him, her tone leaving no room for argument. Being that close to him- having one door as the only layer of separation- was more than she could have asked for.

Jon breathed out harshly, his lungs feeling as if they swelled to capacity at her response. “I’m glad. I feel that I can protect you better if you’re here.” 

“I was just thinking the same of you.” Arya whispered, her steel gaze tracing the symmetric patterns on the surface of the door.

Jon turned to her again, his vibrant gray eyes darkened with emotion. He almost let out a laugh, having heard her words clearly. Endearment tugged at his heart, and the elation and familiarity of having her back, and of being in her presence brought him a peace he had long since forgotten.

And having her close to him, within mere steps of reach was a gift he would never stop thanking the gods for.

Moving away from her, he opened the door and gestured for her walk ahead of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Once she and Jon were inside, she looked around. It was slightly larger than her old room, and even larger still than the one she shared at the House of Black and White. Shelves stood tall, and the Stark sigils hung proudly against the walls between them. The windows let in little sun, but the candlelight and the fireplace would be more than suitable substitutes for the natural light. 

The bed in the corner was larger than any one she slept in since leaving King’s Landing. The bed covers were a dark blue, complementing the gray sigil tapestry. Everything else in the room was modest, trinkets placed here or there to add aesthetics. 

Jon watched Arya walk around, touching various items she came across. Sansa had been slowly going through each room, trying to undo the damage of those who tried to stake claim over what was theirs. He thought it unnecessary at first; what good would any of it be when the threat beyond the wall was eminent? Now, he couldn’t thank Sansa enough.

Arya looked more relaxed, slowly taking in her surroundings. He couldn’t help but think of the first dreamless sleep he would have, knowing that the missing piece of his soul was back with him once again.

“Does this please you?” He asked, moving to stand near the fireplace.

“Yes. This feels like my old room should have.” She picked up a book and opened it, glancing through pages before closing it again.

A thought crossed his mind, and he couldn’t help the downturn of his lips as he inquired, “Have you brought anything with you from your travels?” He never saw a sack or anything that may have held belongings. 

“No.” She reached over her side to unsheathe her sword. “This is all I have.” She twirled Needle in her hand before presenting him with the hilt. 

He raised a brow as he took it from her, a barrage of questions on his lips of her life before coming home, but the words caught in his throat at the familiar item in his hand.

At the small, skinny sword, forged by Mikken what seemed like lifetimes ago.

His breath caught in his chest, and he had to close his eyes and battle against the rapid beating of his heart to tell himself to _breathe_. 

“You’ve kept this? All this time?” He asked after a moment, balancing the sword on trembling fingers. His eyes glazed over from the sight of it. Like her, he could tell the small keepsake had seen its fair share of bloodshed. There were knicks in the hilt, and dirt imbedded in the design. It was not an item used for idle play, but one that had been handled often. The blade itself was dulled throughout the years, but the stains of triumphant combat were visible in the steel. 

She watched as he examined the sword, smiling softly at the reverence in which he held it.

“I could never part with it.” She spoke with conviction. “You gave it to me. It was the only thing I had of you.”

He hissed out her name as he placed the sword on a nearby table and moved closer to her. Trembling hands ached to reach out to her, to hold her close again, but he resisted, too many questions on his lips to think of much else.

It was unkind to ask, he knew. It was too soon. She just walked through the gates. She was hungry and exhausted and if he loved her as he said he did, he would leave her to become reacquainted with her surroundings. So much happened in his world that he still didn’t think he had the strength to speak of. Unseen horrors haunted his mind daily, so much so that it was a wonder he didn’t crumble from them. It was not fair to ask her to speak of her horrors.

But, he was selfish with her, and so the question formed on his lips anyway.

“Where have you been, little sister?” 

His eyes bore into hers, freezing her in place. The question caught her off guard. It was one she had not expected him to ask.

If it had been anything else, if he had asked her for anything else, she would have given it in a heartbeat. After being separated for so long, there was little she would deny him. This request, however, was one she could not give. Not while everything around her was still spinning. 

Not before she had a chance to sit and think and truly _believe_ that she was back where she belonged.  
Not until she had the opportunity to see her father, to bring Needle down and show him how skilled with a sword she was now, and to thank him for the kind man that he was. Not until she had the courage to ask where her youngest brothers and their direwolves were. 

She moved to tell him as much, but a soft knock on the door broke her from her thoughts.

Jon tore his eyes away to see the door open and Sansa peak inside. She held a tray in her hands, insisting that she be the one to deliver food to her sister. 

As soon as she sent the two of them away, Sansa knew exactly where Jon would take Arya. She caught him staring at the door sometimes, laying a hand against the strong wood, deep in thought. Somehow, Sansa knew he was thinking of Arya, and she did her best to make sure that was one of the first chambers restored as she went through the castle. 

She felt it was futile, at first. After all, there was little hope that their sister was alive. There had been no word about a small girl with grey eyes and undeniable Stark features anywhere she had been. But, neither had there been word of her brothers, yet the letter from Ramsay gave rise to hope that she knew Jon latched on to, even if she herself did not. 

She opened the door wider to accommodate the tray, Nymeria at her heels as she made her way into the room to set the food down near the bed.

Sansa was surprised Nymeria had not chosen to follow Arya and Jon. The direwolf remained near Sansa, walking with her to the kitchens and then to let the servants know that extra necessities were needed for Arya’s room. It was silly, but she thought Nymeria may have been paying homage to her fallen sister by spending time with her. She didn’t know why, but she truly believed that.

She hadn’t seen Nymeria since the awful afternoon so long ago, when her sister forced her away while Lady payed the ultimate price of Sansa’s own doing. It hurt to think back to that time, to think of how stupid she was. That Nymeria remembered her and willingly chose to be with her was a redemption Sansa didn’t know she craved until that moment. It was the reason she decided to bring the tray herself instead of letting someone else do it.

She wanted to tell Arya as much, but the atmosphere she’d walked into prevented it. The tension in the room was stifling, and Sansa couldn’t help but contemplate the conversation her presence interrupted. 

Jon was stood in front of the smaller girl in the middle of the room, his stance rigid as he regarded Arya with what looked like utter vexation. It was the only word Sansa could think of, and she had to hold in the laugh that threatened to burst from her chest at the very thought. In all her life, Jon had never looked at Arya with anything other than devotion and adoration. There was no doubt in her mind that he was troubled by something, but there was a better chance of her sewing needles growing legs than of Jon being angry at his “little sister”.

She decided to address Arya first, hoping that it would effectively shift whatever conversation she’d interrupted in another direction.

“I brought you meat pies and soup. I remember how fond you were of them…” She trailed off nervously, her throat suddenly dry and her body humming in embarrassment. 

“Thank you.” Arya murmured softly, glancing over at the tray. Her stomach growled involuntarily, and she was thankful that the sound was not loud enough to be heard. She hadn’t had a hot meal since she left Hot Pie, and the steam rising from the soup and the smells wafting from the pies was so tempting that she would eat it even if it were her least favorite thing.

She moved away from Jon, feeling the distance immediately as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She could feel Jon’s eyes following her every move, but she chose to ignore it in favor of Sansa’s generosity.

And it was generous, considering that ladies did not make a habit of eating in their chambers. It was something their mother and septa Mordane would never allow unless they were ill. That Sansa did not escort her down to the hall to have her meal was a side she never thought she would see of her sister.

Nymeria left Sansa’s side to Jon’s, bumping her nose against his side affectionately. Arya watched them from her place, a smile coming to her lips as he reached to scratch behind her ear. He muttered something to her, his voice low but gentle and reassuring, and Nymeria gave him one last nip before trotting out of the room.

Sansa raised a brow in question, but Arya answered in his stead.

“Ghost is close. I’m sure she can feel it.”

Jon nodded, his heart swelling with the knowledge that Ghost and Nymeria would also have a proper reunion. It saddened him that they were the only ones who remained from the litter of pups brought to Winterfell what seemed like so long ago, just as it saddened him that Robb and Rickon were not amongst them as well.

Jon turned his attention to Arya again, watching as she ate with a speed barely restrained, and felt his chest tighten again. His words almost escaped, but he bit his tongue as he willed himself not to continue his earlier interrogation of her whereabouts. 

He would speak to her again, there was no doubt. As of now, he knew what she was most interested in hearing about.

“Sansa, will you take Arya to the godswood after she has finished?” He asked, keeping his focus on the pie Arya began taking a bite of.

Sansa smiled softly, a knowing look in her eyes. “Yes, of course. He did say he would be there. Will you join us?”

He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “I’ve got some things to take care of with Ser Davos. I’ll meet with you all after.”

Arya wiped her mouth clean and looked between the two of them. 

“Bran’s home, too, Arya.” Sansa told her, her smile demure, yet radiating happiness. “He came home a few days before.”

“Bran?” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice with how softly she uttered the name. It was a name she hadn’t heard since his fall, and news of the cutthroat that tried to take his life. Saying his name for the first time in so long, she wasn’t sure if it should feel foreign or familiar.

Sansa nodded, and felt like she and her sister shared something for the first time. Seeing Rickon at the Battle of the Bastards, and Bran when the crannogmen of Greywater Watch brought him back felt odd when it should have been memorable, off putting when it should have been anything but. Not for the first time, Sansa regretted not having been as close to her siblings as Jon had been to them. For all of her talk of him being her “bastard half brother”, he was the only one who held no peculiar feelings when reunited with any of them. He’d embraced Sansa like the long lost sister she was, despite the horrible child she had been to him. It was more than she would have done had their roles been reversed. That thought almost made her sick to her stomach.

Arya also had a closer relationship with the rest, the only exception being Sansa herself.

“Yes. He’s…well, he’s well. His condition is still the same, but he’s grown taller, and wiser, from the sound of it.” Jon answered for Sansa.

Arya placed her pie down and moved to stand. “I’m ready to go now.”

“You’re not.” Jon’s tone darkened, her eating habits well in the forefront of his mind.

She turned to him, her glare indignant, but he stood firm. It was rare that he asserted authority over her, especially given that he never had any inside of these castle walls. But he would in this case. She was exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes were highlighted by the paleness of her skin, which was taunt against her bones. The fiery wildness of her youth was clouded by her need to eat and rest and bathe and be still.

He wouldn’t stop her from seeing their brother. He would never deny her that. But he was damn well going to see that she was taken care of.

“Finish your meal.” He added stiffly, making his way to the door leading to his chambers. “I’ll see to it that more is prepared for you when you return.”

Arya could only stare as the door closed firmly behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

The steam from the hot springs was a welcome feeling as it mixed with the cold air of the North. Bran had never ventured out to the godswood much as a child, more interested in following his brothers and climbing the tops of Winterfell, learning all of her secrets. It was a shame he never paid much attention to the area with the heart tree nestled in its depths. The reds of the leaves and the carved face amongst the snow covered ground was a peaceful solitude that allowed for a clear mind, one he recently came to realize he needed.

It was where he knew he would be sought out, and waited patiently as his sisters made their way to him. He closed his eyes as he sightlessly watched them, honing in on Arya more than Sansa. He’d seen bits and pieces of her as he trained with the three-eyed raven, same as he had with his other siblings. His first image; he saw her bleeding with a sword in her hand before extinguishing a candle, afraid and determined as the room collapsed into darkness. When he saw her again, she was on a brown mare, looking out over the lands and warring with herself over whether to see her mission through or selfishly see her family.

Either way, she looked the same as she had then as she did standing before him now.

Arya and Sansa faced Bran in front of the heart tree, Sansa taking a subtle step back as her younger siblings shared a moment.

“You came home.” He commented knowingly, almost surprising himself with the hint of a smile that pulled on his lips. Somewhere, Bran’s memories and emotions flooded his insides, reminding him of a time when those were the only ones he ever possessed.

Arya moved forward to embrace him, her movements familiar, yet reserved. He had to hold in his amusement as his mind’s eye witnessed her and Jon’s earlier embrace, as the swirl of their past and present mingled together. If he still embodied Brandon Stark, he might have made a joke about it.

Coming back to himself, he decided on another topic as they pulled away from the embrace. He mentioned seeing her at the crossroads, and took in her shock the same as he had with Sansa and Jon when they had discovered his newfound abilities.

Arya gasped, her surprise and confusion prominent to both Bran and Sansa at the comment.

Bran could only hold her gaze as he mentioned, “I see a lot now.”

Sansa stepped forward then, feeling the need to offer the explanation she wished she had been given at the revelation. She and Jon had been so elated when Bran returned to Winterfell, having believed him dead like the rest of their siblings. It had been a sweet reunion with embraces and tears from both of them. Only when she looked closer did she realize that Bran did not hold their same joy, and merely looked at them with the indifference of a long lost acquaintance. Her private conversation with him in the very place they stood added little clarity, but provided proof enough that what he said held validity.

She was not sure what he might have revealed to Jon, or if he said nothing at all. It didn’t appear that he would offer more to Arya, and it took her a moment to come to the peculiar realization that the reason why was because Arya hadn’t asked.

Regardless, she stepped in. “Bran can see things. Visions of the past and present.” 

“And much more than that.” He added, turning his attention back to Arya, who was still stood in place. “I thought you would go back to Kings Landing, what with Cersei being on your list.”

If Arya held any doubt about Bran’s abilities, it disappeared with that comment. 

“What list?” Sansa inquired, raising a delicate brow as she regarded the younger girl.

Arya chanced a look at her and muttered, “My list of people I’m going to kill.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed before she let a smirk escape, looking between them as she expected them to drop the obvious joke. It was clever, the façade they held. They almost succeeded in tricking her, and it brought a warmth to her as she recalled the tricks Arya used to play on her, regardless of how unappreciative she was of them at the time.

Arya let out a forced chuckle, looking to Bran to play along. Pointedly ignoring her, he held the same stoic expression as he informed, “It’s not a joke. There are only a few others left. Cersei is one of them.”

The laughter stopped abruptly, with Arya giving Bran a warning look. Glancing up at Sansa once more, she wasn’t surprised to see the telltale signs of horror on her face. 

Pain seized her chest as thoughts from earlier in the day came rushing back. Everything in her told her to deny it immediately. Because her worst fears were closing in on her now, threatening to come bubbling to the surface at the thought of Sansa running off to tell Jon of her dirty, murderous secrets. The very thought of him looking at her the way Sansa tried so hard not to would be a blow she wasn’t quite sure she would ever recover from.

Her eyes bore into the clear blue of her sisters, pleading without words to understand. Hoping against history that she would not run to tell anyone of the horrible deeds she was capable of. Sansa broke the contact a moment later, averting her eyes and taking a half step back. Her face gave nothing away, her features schooled in a way that reminded Arya that the older girl had her own stories to tell. And from the sharpness of her gaze, it seemed that she was warring with the decision of whether to heed her plea or share what she’d learned.

For the first time, Arya wondered how close Jon and Sansa had become since they were reunited. Winterfell was no longer home to the familiar faces of their youth. Between her father’s death and the Red Wedding, she suspected the Boltons had taken care of anyone else that may have still been left standing. 

Jon and Sansa would have navigated these grounds on their own, bonding and grieving and rebuilding in ways they never had. It was them ruling Winterfell now- the two of them playing the political game in the name of the North. She and Bran had just arrived, both having taken vastly different paths, but still viewed the same by the Tully blue eyes staring past them into the scenery beyond.

Sansa was dangerous when afraid, Arya remembered. Sansa was always afraid when they were younger. Afraid of getting in trouble, afraid of getting dirty, afraid of Septa Mordane’s wrath, or a reprimanding look from their mother. Most of the time, telling on Arya pacified her, until the day in the clearing when Micah was cut and Arya threatened with a steel blade. That was the day Sansa’s fear manifested into outright lying, and the day “justice” was served in the form of a punished direwolf pup and the death of her friend. She saw some of that fear in her eyes now, but instead of hyperventilating cries of Arya and Micah spoiling everything, it was her silence that was loudest of all.

What would Jon say, if Sansa told him of a killing list? Would he take her at her word, and believe her over Arya? Had their time at Winterfell together helped them forge a connection that was stronger than the one she and Jon shared?

Arya’s lip trembled involuntarily, and she turned away from Sansa slowly. A glint of color caught her attention, and the blade Bran had been eying came into focus.

Sansa noticed it as well, and inquired about it.

“Littlefinger.” He muttered.

Arya’s lips curled. “Littlefinger? He’s here?”

Sansa walked closer, announcing Littlefinger’s declaration to House Stark, along with him having brought the soldiers of the Vale.

Arya shot the taller girl a look, confusion evident. Why would he have been there, declaring for the North, when last she saw he was sitting at a table forging some sort of deal with Tywin Lannister?

Multiple thoughts swarmed Arya’s mind then, most of them centering around the man’s motives for loyalty. Much time had passed since she was in the presence of the former master of coin, but had that been enough for a man as untrustworthy as him to change his ways? Why would the Vale follow orders from Littlefinger when her cousin Robert should have inherited?

She would ask Jon when she saw him later. And with him having “gifted” her brother a valyrian steel dagger, she would make sure to stay on her guard.

“I don’t want it. It is wasted on me.” He told them before holding it out to Arya. 

She took it reverently, tenderly unsheathing and inspecting it. She glanced from it to Bran to see him staring at the weirwood behind her. The wind picked gently, whispering through her hair and across her face. She watched as Bran’s eyes closed and a hint of a smile spread across his face. It left as fast as it came, leaving behind the almost blank look he’d been wearing once again.

Sansa stepped from underneath the tree towards Bran. “I believe we should head back. There is much that needs to be done to prepare for winter and our guests.”

Arya nodded and re-sheathed the dagger to place it on her hip.

As Sansa began pushing Bran on the path back to the castle, he turned toward Arya with a serious expression.

“When you see Jon, tell him I need to speak with him.”

Arya nodded her acquiescence, but inferred , “I thought you already saw Jon.”

“Just when I arrived. He did not get to stay long.” He sat back in his chair, bringing the wolf pelt higher on his lap. “I believe he may be keeping his distance. Tell him he needn’t be afraid. All will be revealed soon.”

Arya paused as Sansa continued to wheel him down the path. Glancing at her sister, she received a shrug in response. Whatever Bran had to talk to Jon about, Sansa didn’t know either.

\--

Once they were inside again, Sansa escorted Bran back to his room before making her leave. There was a brief moment of tense silence as Sansa regarded Arya with barely concealed uncertainty. It was clear that the revelation of her list of names was still at the forefront of Sansa’s mind.

Arya bit her lip through the exchange, forcing herself still. It took everything in her not to run to find Jon. She wondered where the sudden hesitation to see him came from, thinking back to even a couple of hours before when all she wanted was to be with him. Now, images of he and Sansa addressing the northern lords and sharing Bran’s homecoming with one another left her trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of displacement in the place she always felt she belonged.

Stepping back into her chambers, his earlier comment came back with startling clarity when she saw another tray of food sat next to her bed, the steam from the freshly made bread and stew wafting through the room. 

It was more food than she’d had in weeks, and she had no idea what to do. As hungry as she still was, the habit of eating quickly and saving for later was not one that would be easily broken. Too many days traveling with the brotherhood and with the Hound saw to that.

Shaking her head, she moved to a mirror at the far side of the room. She was still in the same clothes she arrived in, the material of her cloak feeling too heavy against her fatigued body. She shrugged it off slowly, letting it fall to the ground and looked at herself. She hadn’t seen a clear reflection since she left the House of Black and White, and as she traced the taunt lines of her cheek bones and the too pale silhouette of her face, she began to understand Jon’s earlier concern. 

She dropped her hand from the mirror, instead tracing her hand down her shirt to hover above her right side. She shuddered to think what it must look like, the wounds from the waif still painful and not yet healed. It was easy to ignore here in the North, and the cold was yet another reason to be thankful for home. However, the cold wouldn’t protect from the pain for long, and she vowed to ask for the new maester as soon as she was able. The exhaustion from traveling and walking the grounds finally took their toll, and it was with slow steps that she made her way to her bed to sit.

She eyed the food on the tray again and thought of Jon. There was no doubt he would check on her before retiring for the evening. Even with his duties, he would find time. The last thing she wanted after being away for so many years was to see disappointment on his face because he’d failed to make her feel better. And he would see it as a failure. His failure. She couldn’t bear it.

So for him, she ate again.


End file.
